


The Importance of Following Orders in a Nice and Accurate Way

by molieretzu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Decluttering, Fluff, Gen, General audiences but there are a couple of mild swear words, Heavenly orders must be obeyed, Implied Marie Kondo, M/M, Maximalist Aziraphale, Pre-Notpocalypse, first fic please be gentle, sparking joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-29 22:10:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20803778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molieretzu/pseuds/molieretzu
Summary: To Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, greetings.During our most recent inspection, it came to our attention that your Earthly habitation is in a disgraceful state of disorder. Allowing such accumulations of material matter is conduct unbecoming a Heavenly agent. You are hereby ordered to clear your quarters and all associated spaces of all unnecessary clutter. A report of your success is expected within two weeks.The official recording angel’s calligraphy stopped here, but there was a postscript scrawled in lavender-gray ballpoint:Get rid of the junk, Aziraphale. Your place looks like Hell. — Gabriel





	The Importance of Following Orders in a Nice and Accurate Way

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sarah F., Rebecca M., and Hayden S. for beta reading. 
> 
> It's been an embarrassingly long time since I wrote fiction, so feedback on pacing, clarity, coding errors, etc., is extremely welcome!

_To Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, greetings._

_During our most recent inspection, it came to our attention that your Earthly habitation is in a disgraceful state of disorder. Allowing such accumulations of material matter is conduct unbecoming a Heavenly agent. You are hereby ordered to clear your quarters and all associated spaces of all unnecessary clutter. A report of your success is expected within two weeks._

The official recording angel’s calligraphy stopped here, but there was a postscript scrawled in lavender-gray ballpoint: _Get rid of the junk, Aziraphale. Your place looks like Hell. — Gabriel_

Aziraphale put down the letter with a sigh and looked around his beloved bookshop. He'd cultivated his collections carefully over the centuries, crafting the perfect balance between overwhelming potential customers and still being able to find any book he wanted within seconds, without having to resort to petty miracles. It was of a piece with the odd smells, the inexplicable drafts that chilled unwelcome customers' ankles and ears, the way the floorboards felt ever so slightly untrustworthy underfoot, the unsettlingly cold smile he'd mastered that dissuaded all but the most determined customers. It was safe, comforting; his nest, barricaded against the things he couldn't control. The thought of tearing apart his precious system, or even having to part with any books to clear space, made his skin feel too tight and his hands clench.

Still, maybe Gabriel did have a point: the old place could probably stand to have a bit of a tidy. After a couple hundred years in one place, things had a tendency to accumulate, and he couldn't actually remember having a clear-out in, well, forever, probably.

And it was a direct order. He was an angel; he couldn't not do what he was told.

But how was he supposed to do what he was told? Getting rid of things was entirely new ground, and as he squinted at the books and papers and sculptures and office supplies[1] and soft furnishings and all the mementoes and unconsidered trifles that had accumulated around him unnoticed like pocket fluff caught in his feathers, he realized that obeying orders this time was going to involve a rather steep learning curve. He wasn't even sure where to begin.

So he did what he always did when seeking new human knowledge.[2]

He bought a book about it.

"But what I don't understand," said Crowley from across the cafe table, "is _why_."

"Orders from Gabriel, I'm afraid."

Crowley rolled his eyes behind the sunglasses; from the forehead wrinkles, Aziraphale could tell it was impressively thoroughgoing, almost an eye somersault. "Gabriel is a tosser and a self-satisfied, stuck-up, weapons-grade prig."

"He's also my superior, and my supervisor," Aziraphale tried to ignore the inner voice that whispered agreement, and added another sugar cube to his tea as a distraction. "And it isn't so bad, really: I've found this wonderful book on how humans have a clear-out, and honestly it's been going very well indeed."

"Going well? You? Having a clear-out?"

"Oh, ye of little faith." Upon reflection, that might not have been the most tactful thing to say to a demon. "I've made all these notes, and look — I've already gotten through the first category completely."

Crowley furrowed his forehead at the notebook Aziraphale shoved across the table at him. "The first category is clothes. How can you have a clear-out of your clothes? Do you even have any clothes? Besides what you've got on now, that is. I could've sworn you've worn the same three blessed suits every day for more than a century."

If pressed, Aziraphale would have had to admit there was some justice in that accusation, but he rallied. "It's not about how many clothes you have, or don't have. It's about whether the clothes that you do have _spark joy._"

For a moment, there was silence from across the table. Gradually, a peculiar sort of sound emerged: a sort of cross between the hissing of an angry goose and a taxicab's gears grinding. Crowley was trying to stifle a dreadful snickering laugh. "What the actual fuck, angel?"

_Patience is a Virtue_, Aziraphale reminded himself. _Pity I'm only a Principality._ "Spark joy. You should only keep items that make you happy, in here," he gestured vaguely where his corporation's heart probably was. "It's actually quite brilliant."

"I guess it's not a bad way to go about it," Crowley conceded.[3] "But I must again point out that you've worn practically the same outfit since Victoria was on the throne. Did you get rid of duplicates or something? Or do you have every piece of clothing you've worn since the Garden stashed in a big wardrobe somewhere?"

"I have a few keepsakes, yes. But you're right; my wardrobe has never been very extensive; even all piled on the bed so I could see it all in one place, it didn't amount to much. I did, however, manage to get rid of a few odd socks."[4]

Crowley's eyebrow quirk suggested his being-impressed meter was bottoming out. "Well, I'm sure Gabriel will be thrilled to hear there are a couple fewer socks cluttering up angelic territory. So that's it for category one. What's category two?" He glanced down again at Aziraphale's careful Spenserian notes, and threw his head back in unabashed laughter. "Books!" he wheezed. "Oh, Satan help me, you've got to go through your books next."

Aziraphale bit into a scone rather more forcefully than necessary. "Really, my dear, I see no need for such jocularity."

Some time later, when he found himself extending the dimensions of his back room for the third time that evening in order to accommodate more unshelved books, Aziraphale felt even grimmer. The little how-to book's author had clearly not anticipated a book collection quite the size of his own when she'd recommended stacking _all_ the books in one single place before picking up and evaluating each one, so he'd improvised and sorted them by categories,[5] putting each group in a different location. Philosophy on the stairs, prophecy stacked around the airtight, climate-controlled cases where his St John scrolls were preserved, beautiful/happy fiction and poetry side by side near the front of the shop, with beautiful/sad fiction and poetry along the north wall . . . there were rather more than he'd expected, actually.

It was a bit daunting, but faint heart ne'er won fair, er, tidiness. Best get on with it. He gently picked up a small, red clothbound book, running his fingers gently over the gold-embossed cover. _Edinburgh: Picturesque Notes_, by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1896. Not old Bobby's best work, admittedly, though the illustrations could be of modest interest to those of an antiquarian bent. The case was water stained and the binding beginning to split, signatures sagging loose from the spine. Nothing of monetary value here, and not a book to which Aziraphale felt a personal connection.

He turned to the flyleaf. Two men had penciled their names and addresses there; the first was crossed out, but still legible. Two men who'd presumably owned the book, either together or in succession. Aziraphale had not known them, did not know what their relationship had been, but this book that was now his had once been theirs, and that connected them, all three. It was a connection to humans long since lost to death. It might be the only trace of them left on Earth.

"This one sparks joy," Aziraphale murmured, and placed it to his side, patting it. He picked up the next book, and began the process all over again.

It was fortunate that Aziraphale hadn't acquired the habit of sleeping, because it took him most of the next week and a half to sort through his books and miracle them back into their proper places. It was exhausting, but somehow exhilarating too: handling every single volume in his collection impressed upon him how grateful he was to have amassed such a trove, how beautiful the humans were who'd created these marvelous things, how precious and fleeting their lives were but how brightly the literary jewels they left behind gleamed and glistened. He found himself whispering thanks to Her for making humans, and whispering promises to long-dead authors that they and their words were not forgotten, not lost; whispering to the books' first owners that they were remembered, that they had mattered.

He now only had a few days until his report to Gabriel was due. Happily, the other categories listed in his how-to book should go much more quickly: kitchen and bathroom utensils, photographs, papers, and miscellany.

He didn't have any kitchen utensils — he hadn't so much as thought to give his flat a kitchen, beyond an elderly fire hazard of an electric kettle. Perhaps the wine glasses and champagne flutes and old fashioneds counted as kitchen items? No matter: they brought alcohol, which definitely brought joy.

Though he did have a bathroom, the only accoutrements there were thick, fluffy towels kept miraculously perfect over the years, a modest selection of bubbles and bath oils, a bottle of cedar and citrus shampoo that never ran out (for those rare occasions he indulged in unnecessary lathering), and a little row of colognes his barber kept assuring him his dear friend Anthony would like very much indeed. Nothing to get rid of there; everything was used and enjoyed and integrated into Aziraphale's conception of who he was.

Photographs took little time: he had few, and none of himself to avoid any awkward questions from humans who might discover them. None of Crowley, either. The framed photos of Oscar, Gertrude, Chinoa, Margaret, and all the other authors he'd been lucky enough to know or to meet since photography had been invented, he kept on the wall.

Papers, those that did not fall into the "unbound book" category, mostly went into the discard pile. A few legal documents — those suspiciously impeccable tax forms, the deed to the shop — were squirreled away in a drawer of his roll-top desk. The secret box where he kept all the cryptic notes Crowley had sent to him over the centuries remained, hidden in a locked compartment, guarded by miracles that would incinerate the contents if any hand touched the box except his.

Miscellany: the Victrola was staying, and all its records. The Chariot of the Mind statue on his desk, the novelty paper clips, the dusty bottles of ink and frail fountain pens (he'd been given that one, the sleek black one with the red band, by MI5, as thanks and a "don't call us, we'll call you" golden handshake after the Nazi prophecy book debacle), the yellowing notebooks still waiting for the touch of a pen, the half-melted sticks of sealing wax, the ribbons that once had bound letters or parcels. All were touched, sorted, balanced against his heart like the feather of Ma'at.

The wine and liquor were, of course, carefully curated already. _Though_, Aziraphale thought, _I suppose it wouldn't hurt to check anyway. Want to make sure it really does spark joy._

"You've finished? Already?" Crowley had sounded incredulous on the phone. "I'd figured it would take the better part of a century to dig out. Hadn't thought I'd see you again for yonks."

"Well, I'm almost finished," Aziraphale admitted. "Just one category to go. I'd rather hoped I could get you to help with it, actually."

"You want me to do heavy lifting? Seriously?"

"Just a bit of bending the elbow, that's all."

Crowley, predictably, was there in a flash.

"So, the place looks," Crowley glanced around the bookshop, wine already in his hand. (He had very clear priorities.) Then he took off his sunglasses and looked around again. "Great?" he finished weakly.

"Thank you, dear boy. Of course, it is a subtle change, but I do think it makes all the difference."

"Difference. Yeah, definitely." They'd reached the back room now, and Crowley draped himself in his accustomed spot on and across and partially dangling off the sofa. He kept squinting at the room critically, even here. "Difference like how it all looks exactly the same, you mean."

"Oh, not at all! I went through every single item — every book, paper, objet d'art, every scrap. Anything that failed to spark joy went _whoop!_ Out the door." A leisurely sip of the Sassicaia, a rich plummy red with scritchy tannins, and he hummed with pleasure. "Now, this definitely sparks joy."

"Did you get rid of anything at all, angel?"

"Tchah! Do you doubt my word?"

"I doubt your ability to throw anything out, that's what I doubt."

Aziraphale indicated a box sitting by the back wall. "Behold: exhibit A."

"What? Where?" Crowley picked up the box — it was indeed fairly light, considering the time and effort taken to assemble its contents — and rummaged around in it. "Aziraphale, it's got three odd socks and about a dozen papers in it."

"And a broken paperclip."

"And, as you say, a broken paperclip. Are you seriously trying to tell me that you spent nearly two weeks tearing this place apart to declutter, and _this_ is all you're getting rid of?" Crowley examined the papers more closely. "Aziraphale, most of these papers are letters from Gabriel. They're your orders from Heaven."

"They did not spark joy," Aziraphale said firmly. "When something does not spark joy, we thank it for its service and release it back into the universe."

Slowly, a delighted grin crept across Crowley's face. "You utter, delightful bastard. And all this. . . ." He waved a hand, vaguely indicating the crammed bookshelves, overflow books stacked precariously, tchotchkes and layers of worn Persian carpets and battered furniture and all the treasured, beautiful flotsam gathered over the millennia.

"I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean," Aziraphale said primly. "I was given orders to declutter. I am an angel; I cannot disobey orders. I must obey them thoroughly and without question. You know that."

"Yeah, well, I'm just glad this wine made the cut." Crowley raised a glass in salute, and Aziraphale raised his own.

_The wine, the bookshop, humanity and its glorious legacies, and you, dear boy. You spark the deepest, fiercest joy of all. I wish I could say it out loud, but I hope you hear it all the same._

_To Gabriel, Messenger of God, Most High Archangel, greetings._

_Per your instructions, I have acquired instruction from a renowned expert on decluttering and followed her directions precisely. I am most pleased to report that my Earthly abode is now completely free of "junk" and other unwanted clutter, in accord with the guidance of this esteemed specialist._

_Your brother in grace, and Her servant always,_

_Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate_

**Author's Note:**

> [1]Even Aziraphale admitted, at least to himself, that his joy in office supplies was senseless. He was an angel and bookshop owner who never sold any books if he could help it (and he was rather skilled in helping it), and there was absolutely no reason for paper clips shaped like penguins or puppies, sticky notes in surprising colors or humorous shapes, blank A5 notebooks with ribbon bookmarks, and fountain pens that leaked ink all over his hands to bring such gladness to his corporation's heart. Nevertheless, they did. [return to text]
> 
> [2]Or when he was stressed or sad and needed a non-edible pick-me-up. Or when celebrating and he didn't feel like breaking out the wine. Or when he was tired, or lonely, or spotted a new book that looked interesting, or about a million other occasions.[return to text]
> 
> [3]Crowley would never admit it under the direst of tortures, but that was precisely the thinking behind his own spartan flat's furnishings: everything there was meaningful, and the best things were the ones that reminded him of Aziraphale. [return to text]
> 
> [4]Aziraphale was unsure how he kept winding up with odd socks, especially since he rarely washed them these days and miracled them clean instead. He'd tried folding pairs neatly together, using clips, balling the socks together, and finally even using minor miracles to stick the pairs together, but invariably one would go missing — and always from his current favorites. The closest thing he'd found to an explanation was in a modern novel that proposed the existence of a determined monster known as the Eater of Socks; as far as Aziraphale knew, there was no such thing in Creation, but it seemed as rational an explanation as any. [return to text]
> 
> [5]Aziraphale's categorization strategy mystified most people, but it was all really rather simple and obvious. Prophecy, philosophy, religion (subcategories: pretty reasonable overall when allowing for human misinterpretation, interesting but they'd got the wrong end of the stick, and batshit crazy), history (subcategories: more or less accurate, laughably wrong, and tragically wrong), poetry and fiction (two separate categories, but each with the subcategories of beautiful sad, beautiful happy, intellectually challenging, and absolutely godawful but the writers meant well, bless their hearts), Wilde, books that should be read with a cup of Lapsang Souchong (or Assam, or herbal tisanes, flavored cocoa, plain cocoa, specific types and vintages of wine, etc.), and the Jeffrey Archer books that only existed to mask Crowley's faint Hellish scent from any suspicious angels who might drop by. [return to text]
> 
> The book Aziraphale examines first is from my personal collection, and looks exactly like that, down to the two mysterious men who wrote their names on the flyleaf.
> 
> The Eater of Socks is from Sir Terry Pratchett's Discworld, and is something in which I wholeheartedly believe. There is no other explanation for why single socks go missing even when clipped together or hand washed.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as [preraphaelitepunk](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/preraphaelitepunk), if you'd like to say hello.


End file.
